


The Light Inside You

by theleavesoflorien



Category: SKAM (TV), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Feelings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, M/M, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-03 07:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11527338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleavesoflorien/pseuds/theleavesoflorien
Summary: In this universe, Isak has hairy feet and is barely more than five feet tall. He lives a quiet life in the Shire, until everything he knows is turned upside down and he has no choice but to embark on an adventure — an adventure which leads him to a life-changing meeting in Minas Tirith.(Or: the Evak Middle-earth AU nobody asked for)





	1. The Lily

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuteandtwisted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuteandtwisted/gifts).



> I dedicate this fic to Wissal, who inspires me to not be afraid to write from my guts and take risks, and to dare to be real. ♡ 
> 
> Hmu @ [theleavesoflorien](http://theleavesoflorien.tumblr.com) on tumblr! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is probably going to feel quite unusual for several reasons, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless. ♡ 
> 
> One of my main goals with it is to keep the characters’ essence, while also adapting them so they seamlessly become part of Middle-earth and fit into that world. Hopefully, this attempt at staying true to both SKAM and Tolkien isn’t going to feel too jarring. Please feel free to let me know if something doesn’t make sense to you, or if you spot any mistakes or incoherences.
> 
> The first few chapters will mostly be introducing Isak. Even will first be mentioned in the fourth chapter, and then become part of the story in chapter five.
> 
> Notes about terms and background information related to the Middle-earth universe can be found at the end of this chapter. I plan on keeping that system every week.
> 
> Without any further ado, let’s go on this adventure together! :)

_The Lily white shall in love delight,_  
_Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright_  
\- William Blake

**17 years earlier**  
**Afterlithe, FA 49**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

_The small common room of the humble Valleybarren abode, usually quiet as though buried under the earth and hidden away from the world, is resounding with the shrill screams of a newborn baby signifying its entrance into the world._

_Isak is staring wide-eyed at the rosy shape huddled inside a snow-white cotton quilt, vaguely aware that the piercing shrieks should irritate or upset him, but all he can bring himself to feel as he takes in the sight of his little sister for the first time is raw, overwhelming, infinite love._

She’s so perfect, so… alive.

_After lingering seconds of silence only filled by the chorus of screams, Isak’s mother looks up into Isak’s eye, the corners of her mouth curled in the most genuine smile she has harboured in a long while. Her eyes—the colour of fertile soil in the spring—sparkle with constellations of happiness and delight more beautiful than the sky Isak spends hours gazing at on warm summer nights._

_“Do you want to hold her?” Marigold asks._

_Isak silently walks over to the tiny bed his mother is lying in and bends over the worn-out sheets covering her legs, his arms outstretched and ready to be filled with a new world, and suddenly he’s holding..._

_A warm, unbearably fragile body he immediately presses against his chest in a protective gesture, making sure the tiny head rests comfortably against his bent arm. His free hand (which is shaking ever so slightly, he notices) instinctively curls around the fabric underneath the newborn’s chin, close enough to brush the skin as soft as a young flower’s petals — and the shrieking immediately ceases, as though evaporating under the fond heat of Isak’s gaze. Isak stares longingly at this little thing, so fresh and delicate and beautiful, and he’s overwhelmed by a joy so piercing he feels it flow out of him in a quiet stream against the cheek. Never in his life has he seen anything quite this marvellous._

_When a gurgling giggle escapes the infant’s pouty mouth and Isak’s gaze is met with two huge eyes which (Isak thinks) must hold all that is green and good in the Shire and beyond, Isak distantly hears a strangled sob escape his throat._

_“Leanora,” he murmurs, “I love you. I love you. I may not be able to save myself, but I promise I will protect you. Always. I won’t ever let you fall.”_

_Leanora’s tiny hand grips Isak’s index finger, as if sealing the promise enveloping them in a cocoon and shielding them from the cold hands of the outside world._

* * *

**Present time**  
**Thrimidge, FA 64**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

The cry of hobbit children resounds far off in the fresh spring breeze. It carries all the way to him as he’s sprawled on the grass on his back, his long limbs stretched around him and his fingers buried in the cool mattress underneath.

The giggles and laughter and playful screeching should make him feel at peace, he thinks. Isn’t that what the joy of children is supposed to inspire? Yet Isak can only feel a pulsing, gaping sadness spread in his chest at the sound. The echoes of happiness and innocence are rushing over him in an inexorable wave, and all he can do is keep on lying, motionless, and waiting for the tide to rise, rise, rise until it drowns him.

 _Where has_ my _childhood gone?_

His eyes are lost in the infinity of the sky hanging over him, in the blue blue blue blue blue stretching to the confines of his gaze. The pure but painfully bright shade of azure unblemished by clouds, instead of calming him like it should, hurts his eyes and makes him squint. Plunging into the sky’s depths, he almost feels like he’s drowning in it, too.

No escape.

“Isak!” a bubbly and high-pitched voice calls suddenly, making him sit up with a surprised jolt.

Isak’s heart is beating uncontrollably in his chest as he takes in the tiny figure standing a short distance away from him, all bright and soft and vibrant. His eye settles on delicate hands playing with the hem of a cherry-coloured linen dress; a tangled mane of sand-coloured curls falling down to the waist; two small dimples forming on uncommonly pale cheeks — and, just like that, the drumming inside his chest is steadied and he’s brought back from the scary and faraway place he’d been moments before.

Since her birth seventeen years ago, that little girl has painted strokes of colour in Isak’s life and kept him from drifting too far into darkness. She’s been the sun he turns to when all else is an utterly starless night. And today, her sweet and over-excited voice is enough to make the echo of the playing children’s screams fade into the distance until they become but a bad dream hovering on the edge of Isak’s consciousness.

“Hi Lea,” Isak answers quietly, almost startled to hear his own voice. He gives his sister a bright smile, the corners of his mouth never being able to resist perking up in her presence. “What are you doing here, summer lily?”

Lea’s own smile grows until her little chubby face becomes all dimples and sparkly eyes, and she gives off a giggle as she makes her way towards him in short, skipping strides.

“I’ve been looking for you, of course!” she answers with the hint of a pout in her voice. “You’ve been gone for _ages_ , Isi! What are you doing lying down by the Water all by yourself?”

By the time Lea has finished speaking, Isak has stood up and is towering over his sister with a playful smirk on his lips. Lea immediately contradicts the tone of accusation in her remark by jumping enthusiastically into her older brother’s outstretched arms, a loud squeal escaping her lips as Isak easily lifts her and lets her wrap her frail arms and legs around him.

Isak chuckles against his sister’s hair, not quite knowing what to say, and a scent of honey and soft mint tickles his nostrils pleasantly. “Have you been baking with Sam and the children again?” he teases her instead, leaning back to watch Lea’s reaction. His sister’s eyes light up briefly, winking stars scattered across a deep-green sea, but her expression of delight quickly turns into something almost indignant again.

“If you must know: yes, I have.” The endearing contrast between the seriousness of her voice and the poutiness of her lips makes a pool of warmth settle inside Isak’s belly and spread like a drop of ink on parchment. “But I’m _sorry_ , Isak — changing the topic of conversation isn’t going to distract me. I’m not a little girl anymore, I know all about your grown-up diversion tricks now!”

Isak can’t help the light-hearted mocking seeping into his voice as he exclaims: “Beg your pardon, Miss Leanora. Quite right, you’re a big girl, you’ve actually almost reached _half of my age_!” Lea’s fingers dig lightly into his shoulders at that, and a huff (probably intended to sound annoyed but coming off as begrudgingly fond instead) brushes Isak’s neck and makes him giggle quietly.

“Right…” Lea drawls in a highly unconvinced voice. “Mister’s almost thirty-three and thinks he’s one of the big boys now.”

“I am, though. Just one more month before I’m coming of age!” Isak draws his head back just enough to wink at his sister, knowing that that always manages to infuriate her. Surely enough, Lea squints at him and then rolls her eyes with admirable energy, a long pathetic sigh making it past her lips. Isak frowns when the sigh turns into a coughing fit and Lea’s body starts jerking uncontrollably against his chest for a few moments.

“I don’t even want to think about how _smug_ you’re going to be as soon as you’re officially of age,” Lea manages to say a bit breathlessly after a while, sounding like the mere thought is making her beyond exhausted. “I mean… More smug than you already are, that is. Gosh, you’ve grown so big, too! Are you sure you’re a real hobbit?”

Isak chuckles at that but, this time, he feels a shard of ice lodge itself in his stomach and dissipate the warmth that had been settling there.

Suddenly, the stares and barely concealed huffs of disapproval that have been following him for as far as he can remember rush back to him in a cloud of hungry flies, hovering above his head and making his insides buzz uncomfortably. The memories—though some of them are more than twenty years old—still sting like so many needles piercing through his soft, vulnerable skin.

_“Mommy, what’s this strange man doing here? He can’t be a hobbit, surely?”_

“Soon, you’re going to be so big you’ll be able to ride a real horse as huge as Farmer Maggot’s! Can you imagine, Isi?”

_“Ain’t seen no hobbit this big since Bullroarer Took! He don’ belong with us, we don’ want no strange folk here!”_

“People are going to be jealous as always, but really, what does their opinion matter? They just can’t stand the fact that you could crush them all with one stroke of your very, very long legs. An inferiority complex — that’s all there is to it, I’m telling you!”

_“The Took side of the family showing again in the most curious ways, I suppose... Told you they were freaks, Matilda!”_

“Isak? _Isak_ , are you even listening to me?!”

The shrill voice, all bells and trumpets, brutally dissipates the distant voices that had been forcing their way into Isak’s brain. Isak blinks and stares at his sister stupidly for a few moments, realising for the first time that she’s leaning back in his arms and looking at him inquisitively. He tries to blink back the drops of humiliation and sadness he can feel burning at the corner of his eyes, but he knows it’s probably too late: his sister always sees _everything_.

Lea’s gaze becomes sharp, and she tilts her head a little, as though trying to observe her brother from another angle. Her moss-coloured eyes, suddenly full of concern, draw Isak’s into their comforting and sparkling depths until Isak feels like he could just lie down in their midst and sleep, sleep, sleep. _No fear, no pain, just a long and peaceful rest._

But Isak shakes himself awake and hurriedly tear his eyes away, knowing from experience that it’s only a question of time before his sister would forcibly suck the poison out of the open wounds of his heart if he let her. He isn’t quite ready for that yet, doesn’t want the ugliness to be let out in the open and stain Lea’s light with black tears.

“Sorry, summer lily, I just got distracted.” Isak’s voice sounds hoarse to his own ears. He knows Lea notices it too, but he hopes (with something close to fright coiling inside his belly) that she won’t remark on it.

His sister squints a bit, looking like a thousand words are eager to tumble out of her mouth, but she sighs and doesn’t insist. Isak lets out a shaky breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Let’s go home, shall we?” Lea asks instead with a radiant smile which steals away the glory of the early afternoon sun. “I was actually looking for you to let you know that there’s soon going to be some fresh honey cake ready, and that you’re welcome to stuff your face with it — not that you ever need my permission to eat a whole cake by yourself anyway, but oh well. Mamma said we need to feed your tall and scrawny almost-of-age body, you know!”

Isak laughs again at that and, this time, it’s entirely genuine. For a moment, the dark ghosts lurking on the verge of his consciousness are chased away by the almost blinding light (coming from Lea or from the sun, Isak can’t tell) which warms Isak’s skin through his clothes, seeping into him in a gentle caress.

He lets Lea down, barely noticing a stiffness in his back at having held her for so long, and he takes her little hand in his big one. The palm resting against his feels strangely frail and cold, and Isak rubs it instinctively as though to colour it with some of the warmth left in him. Isak tries to ignore the small touch of worry tugging at his heart as he reflects vaguely that it’s too warm outside for Lea’s skin to feel chilly as a fragile leaf forgotten in the snow.

When their eyes meet, the brother and the sister smile at each other sweetly for a brief moment, noses scrunched up and eyes glittering.

“Let’s go!”

If only he can hold onto her and her light, Isak thinks, the darkness won’t ever engulf him completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Afterlithe_ : July in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _Thrimidge_ : May in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _FA_ : Fourth Age, which starts after Sauron is vanquished and the One Ring is destroyed  
>  _Bywater_ : village in the Shire, located within the Westfarthing and close to Hobbiton  
>  _The Water_ : river in the Shire, tributary to the Brandywine river  
>  _Bandobras “Bullroarer” Took_ : tallest hobbit on record after Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck
> 
>  **Note on age** : Hobbits live for an average of 90-100 years and come of age (i.e. essentially become adults) at 33. If one calculates that 33 is the rough equivalent of the 18-year mark for us, this makes Isak ~17 and Lea ~8-9 at the beginning of the story.
> 
>  **Note on size** : While hobbits are typically between two and four feet (0.61–1.22 m) tall and have an average height of three feet six inches (107 cm), Isak measures five feet one inch (155 cm). He’s the only hobbit in history to have passed the five feet bar.


	2. The Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we get to explore Isak's relationship to his mother and other hobbits around him, as well as Isak's one true passion. I hope you'll forgive the rather slow pace, I promise things are going to get moving from the next chapter onwards! ♡

_I found the perfect garden spot_  
_To spread the ashes of my heart_  
_All in the hopes that it would grow_  
_Rows and rows of forget-me-nots_  
\- Mike Hauser  
  
****

**18 years earlier**  
**Foreyule, FA 48**  
**Bywater, the Shire**  
  
_When he finds his mother kneeling on the cold floor of their hobbit hole, a piece of paper clutched so tightly in her hands that her knuckles have turned white, Isak knows._

_The realisation creeps into his skin, his bones, his veins, spreading in every corner of his body until all the warmth left in him has been quenched in fear colder and sharper than ice._

_He’s gone. He’s really gone this time._

_As far back as his memory reaches, Isak remembers that he’s witnessed his father threatening to leave them many, many times, shouting in a havoc of harshness and hatred that he couldn’t stand this life anymore, that he needed to get away from his insane wife and the child he’d made the mistake of having with her. Even though Isak’s mind was too young and innocent to understand his father’s words at the time, the scorching fire of disdain burt him and the edge of revulsion cut into his skin. Isak felt and somehow_ knew _what it all meant. And now, Isak thinks, Terbold has finally acted on his long-standing promise. Despite being a coward, he really always was a man of his word._

_Overwhelmed by thoughts weighing much too heavily on his shoulders, all Isak can do for a long while is stare at his mother helplessly, at her frail back falling and rising in a succession of sobs which vibrate inside Isak. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to do to make it all better and take the pain away._

_After a few more moments of petrified silence, Isak approaches his mother, slowly, quietly, as though afraid of frightening an injured animal. Crouching next to her, he starts stroking her back soothingly with his thumb._ Up down up down up down up down. _When he feels her sobs resonate through his palm and fingers and everywhere inside him, he bites back the whimper threatening to tear itself out of his throat._

_Marigold, the hobbit full of light carrying in her heart a love bigger than the world, the hobbit with a melody of happiness always dancing on her lips — what has she become? She’s gone, Isak realises, replaced by an empty shell. Nothing remains but dark despair and a concert of misery echoing in every corner._

_“Mamma," Isak murmurs, barely noticing the way his own voice cracks at the word. “Mamma, I’m sorry.”_ I’m sorry for being a bad son. I’m sorry that my father, your husband, didn’t love us—didn’t love me—enough to stay. 

_Isak brings his other hand to Marigold’s face and brushes his thumb against her cheek, feeling the cool wetness of her tears on his finger. He shushes his mother absently, barely aware of what he’s doing, until the wrecked whimpers eventually die down and Marigold tears her gaze away from the ground to look into her son’s eyes._

_When he takes in the face carved with lines of misery, the haggard eyes ravaged by a storm, Isak feels his own hand freeze on his mother’s cheek in horror. He needs to fight the urge to recoil._

Mamma, what has he done to you?

_“Isadorac, my son,” Marigold whispers, her voice feeble like a bird’s broken wings. “It’s not for you to apologise, you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”_

_Isak can’t bear the intensity of her gaze still soiled by tears. He looks down, drawing his hands into his lap to start playing absent-mindedly with the coarse and dirty cotton of his shirt. The stone lodged at the bottom of his stomach feels too heavy now for Isak to be able to focus on anything else._

_He doesn’t know what to respond, but he knows that he doesn’t believe this mother’s words._

_“Mamma,” Isak starts after long seconds of silence, “why did father actually leave? Everybody’s talking about it, you know. Before coming here to check on you, I heard people say... stuff, but I don’t know if any of it’s true.”_

_A cold finger nudges his chin, making him look up, and Isak’s gaze is met with a sad smile, pale and thin as a shadow._

_“What did you hear, baby?”_

_Isak gulps heavily before answering, not sure how to formulate his thoughts._

_“Um. People say he was bewitched. That he left with one of the tall and beautiful women from Bree who sometimes visit the Shire.” Isak takes in a shuddering breath, finding deep within himself the courage to continue. “Berril Bucklebury says he saw father sneak away with a woman like that at dawn, hand in hand and all. Old Berril may be many things, but he’s not a liar, so I figure there must be some truth to what he's saying. Can Men do that, mamma? Can they cast a spell on hobbits and make them leave their family?”_

_Isak is surprised to hear an edge of desperation in his own voice, something raw and hopeful and almost pleading. Perhaps_ _(perhaps)_ _his father wasn’t entirely himself when he left, a small voice at the back of his head insists. Perhaps someone else made him do it, made him leave the home he’d had all his life without as much as one look back._

_Marigold sighs and catches a golden curl of her son’s head between two slightly trembling fingers. By now, the glistening trails of her tears have dried up, crystallising into livid wounds on her cheeks._

_“Isak, darling.” Her voice is unbearably gentle, unbearably miserable. “There are many forces in our Middle-earth that are too big and mysterious for me_ — _or any of us, really_ — _to grasp. There’s a wide world full of unknown dangers right past the borders of our beloved Shire. But in spite of that, I’m certain of one thing: whatever made your father leave, it wasn’t something or someone else. It was him. It was his decision.”_

_Although he’s not sure he understands exactly what his mother means, Isak instinctively knows she’s right, and that realisation makes exhaustion settle all over his heart. In that instant, he wants nothing more than lie down and wake up in another place, in another time, anywhere where everything doesn’t hurt._

_“It’s me who’s sorry,” Marigold continues after a bit, her hand now pulling softly at Isak’s hair just like she does every night when putting him to bed. “It’s me who should be there for you, and here you are comforting me.” The reassuring caress of her hand, although it doesn’t quite manage to relax Isak this time, makes his eyes flutter close and a small sigh of content escape his lips. “Still a child, and yet so responsible and mature. So grown up. This life has robbed you of your childhood. I’m sorry, baby.”_

_Isak’s eyes immediately snap back open when he hears the regret and the guilt in his mother’s voice. He can bear his father leaving. He can bear his life being shattered into splinters. But if there’s one thing he_ cannot _bear right now, it’s the thought of Marigold feeling sad not only about his father, but also about Isak._ I never want to cause you pain, mamma. I only want to make you smile and laugh that beautiful laugh of yours.

_For the first time since Terbold sneaked away like a thief and took almost everything with him, Isak suddenly feels completely steady, completely grounded. Neither his hands nor his voice tremble when he places his right palm on his mother’s huge belly and lets the truth inside his chest make its way into the world._

_“It’s okay, mamma. I don’t care. I love you.”_

I’ll be a good son. I won’t ever abandon you, like father did. I’ll always be there for you. For _both_ of you.

 _Isak feels something_ — _a foot, a hand, or maybe a head?_ — _nudge_   _his hand through his mother’s thick dress, and the trace of a smile tugs at his lips._

_No matter what happens, he’s always going to have his mother and his little sister. Nothing will ever take that away from him._

* * *

**Present time**  
**Forelithe, FA 64**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

Isak breathes out a deep sigh of satisfaction. Pearls of sweat are budding along his temples, every muscle of his body is screaming from overexertion — and his mind, his mind is peacefully blank, floating in a contended haze which nothing (not even the ever-present intrusive thoughts Isak knows like the back of his hand) can dissipate. Wiping his damp forehead with the back of his arm, he leans back to admire the result of two hours’ hard work.

The small garden he’s been keeping behind the family home is doing well, he thinks. _Very_ well. At the back, following the curve of Bywater Road stretching just outside the Valleybarrens’ patch of land, are seventeen kinds of flowers aligned in neat rows: some glittering like so many golden bells, others delicate and butterfly-shaped, others silver as a handful of stars scattered across the dark earth. Then come eight more rows, this time seemingly barren but bearing the promise of a rainbow of textures and colours waiting to come out.

Isak has calculated when and where the greenery in his garden should be planted to mature under the very best conditions, and he knows its growth is going to follow his predictions with unfailing accuracy, just like it always has ever since he started dedicating himself to gardening some years ago. Everything else in his life may be slipping between his fingers in an eluding wisp of smoke, but Isak can at least count on the small, controlled haven under his care to follow a predetermined course and never let him down — if the climate of the Shire allows it, that is, which it thankfully always does.  

With a satisfied nod to himself, Isak bends over and collects two enormous baskets he has filled with all manners of herbs and flowers, humming tunelessly as he feels their weight on his forearms. He’s going to have a lot of work to do at home, and the prospect makes a thrill of joy run through him.

One moment, he’s about to turn around and go inside his home to get started on the methodical process of categorising, labelling, dissecting, cutting and boiling which has become a reassuring routine, a rock keeping him grounded. The next, a familiar head of dark hair (cut much shorter than the tousled and curly mane typical of hobbits) catches his eye, making the quiet content flowing through Isak moments ago evaporate in a heated daze. Isak quickly averts his gaze, as though looking away from the girl is somehow going to make her disappear — but he glimpses a flash of two huge bright eyes and of an all-teeth smile thrown in his direction, and he realises with a feeling akin to dread that it’s too late. The hobbit lass has seen him.  

She quickly circles the fence surrounding the Valleybarrens’ garden, her steps energetic and confident, until she’s standing in front of Isak and an obnoxious sweet perfume (smelling like a terribly mismatched bouquet of flowers) assails his nostrils. He involuntarily scrunches up his nose in distaste, managing in the last moment to cover up the movement with a slight sniff and a back-armed rub on his nose.   

“Hi!” The girl’s high-pitched voice disturbs the peaceful calm Isak has been basking in all morning, and he has to make a conscious effort not to frown at her at the offensive sound.

“Um, hi Emilda,” Isak responds in the most friendly tone he can muster. His voice sounds suspiciously strained to his own ears. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much! I was just on my way to the market and saw you, so I thought I should drop by and say hi. We haven’t seen each other in _ages_ , what have you been up to?” She gives him a searching look at that, and Isak feels irritation gnaw at his chest as he hears a trace of accusation beneath her light tone of voice. 

“Eh, I don’t know, just… planting stuff, I guess. As usual.”

At that, Emilda’s laugh resonates loudly in the crisp morning air, making Isak flinch.

“Oh, yeah! So exciting! How’s that going?”

“Well, it’s going great, actually.” Isak decides to ignore the ball of panic lodged in his throat in favour of focusing on Emilda’s question instead. “The _mellys_ are doing even better than I would’ve expected, I’m soon going to be able to make them into balm. And I’ve collected a lot of Pipe-weed this morning, so I’m quite happy about that.”

“Pipe-weed? You goin’ to smoke a bunch, you little rebel?” Emilda almost shouts in what Isak assumes is meant to be a joke.

“No,” he answers levelly, happy to note that his voice sounds reasonably collected despite the groan he can feel bubbling its way up his throat. “It’s purely for medicinal purposes. That’s why I grow most of the flowers, plants and herbs I have in this garden.” Emilda doesn’t need to know that Isak _has_ enjoyed the quiet haze of pipe smoking on quite a few solitary nights, letting the heady smoke envelop him in a semblance of peace before dissipating into the cold starry sky.

“Oh, right.” Emilda looks down meekly at her hairy feet. She seems at a loss for words for a moment, but then she seems to quickly regain her confidence and looks up at Isak with purpose, craning her neck to fix him with a stare. The look she gives him feels intrusive, almost violating, and the forcefulness of it makes Isak shift his weight and gulp forcibly. As he gapes at Emilda, distaste and anxiety coil up inside him, two all-too-familiar snakes squeezing and making a wave of nausea rise up his throat. 

Silently, her eyes never letting Isak’s go, Emilda reaches inside one of the baskets Isak is holding. When she holds up a fragrant sun-shaped flower— _eirien_ , Isak thinks dully—and places it deftly behind his left ear, an icy shiver runs down Isak’s spine. The flower, touched by Emilda and now resting against his damp hair, seems to suck in the brightness of the morning sun until Isak can’t remember, can’t notice its presence anymore.

“Here,” the girl whispers, standing on the tip of her toes to lean into his ear as though trying to breathe some mysterious powers into the flower she put there. Isak’s head is spinning round and round and round. No sound can make it past his mouth.

“By the way, Isak... I’ve told you. You can call me Emma.”  

Isak is desperately trying to push past the painful grip he can feel throttling him, internally shouting at himself to say anything ( _anything_ ) to make her voice and her touch and her gaze on him disappear, when—

“Isak, darling! There you are!”

His mother is walking towards them. A curious and questioning expression colours her face, as though she’s surprised to find her son spending time in their garden despite the fact that he’s done so every day for the past three years or so — but Isak sees something earnest dancing in her eyes as she approaches, and he instinctively guesses that her interrupting Emilda and him is no accident. There are rarely any accidents with his mother.

“Good morning, Emilda,” Marigold says cheerily when she’s reached them. Isak notes that the smile twisting her lips doesn’t reach her eyes, and that the skin of her face (except for the many wrinkles of age and tiredness already carved there) remains obstinately smooth. Emilda may not know this, Isak thinks — but when his mother is genuinely happy, small delicate branches grow at the corners of her eyes, making her face crinkle and come alive.

“Good morning, Mrs. Valleybarren!” Emilda answers in a voice exasperatingly close to a squeal. Isak resists the urge to roll his eyes, annoyed by the way Emilda always smiles a bit too bright and always talks a bit too loudly whenever his mother is around. There’s a ghost of nervousness hovering beneath Emilda’s almost aggressive cheerfulness, he can feel it. They’ve never talked about it, but Isak knows that the girl—like everybody else in the Shire—is all too aware of Marigold’s reputation and of the gossip following her every movement like a cloud of flies drawn to honey. The thought makes Isak’s stomach churn up.

“I was just going to discuss some family matters with Isak, if you don’t mind,” Marigold continues. Her eyes flutter briefly to Isak as if to emphasise her words, and the smile she flashes Emilda is more tense than ever.

“Oh.” Emilda finally seems to pick up on the tension cracking in the air all around them. “Yes, of course! I’ll leave you to it.” She gulps and grins a bit, this time with noticeable discomfort. Isak feels the corners of his own mouth twitch as the raging tempest inside his chest comes to a halt and is replaced by relief rushing through him in a tide. _She’s leaving now, finally. She’s leaving._

After one last exchange of forced rictuses, Emilda offers Isak a weak “See you around” and waves a limp hand at him, turning to leave the garden and get back onto the road. Isak, overwhelmed by the weight of Emilda’s presence being lifted from his shoulders, can’t find in himself the energy to respond with anything more than a mumble and a vague gesture of his fingers.

He’s now free — if only for a short blissful moment, until the next time Emilda corners him and tries to engage him _yet again_ . She’s been constant in her efforts ever since they met at Eglantine Took’s birthday party some months ago, and Isak suspects her tenacity and naivety will probably keep fueling her attempts as a flame steadily burning against the wind. Yet, although the phantom of Emilda’s bright smile and sparkling eyes often keeps him awake through long sleepless nights, Isak can’t bring himself to care. Not in that instant. He concentrates instead on the grounding presence of the nature all around him: the earth underneath the coarse sole of his feet, the wind stroking his cheeks gently, the _eirien_ flower tickling the baby skin behind his ear...

Isak is brought back from his reverie by a humming sound. He looks up, a bit disoriented, and his eyes immediately meet his mother’s — not hard and calculating anymore, but soft like a sweet, fleeting kiss on the cheek. For the thousandth time, Isak reflects that his sister Leanora has inherited their kindness, their beauty. _Oh, those eyes feel like home._ Isak desperately wishes he shared the same vibrant seas of green with the two persons he loves most in the world, but a small nagging voice at the back of his head takes pleasure in reminding him that he doesn’t. No. His eyes are ever-changing, treacherous: sometimes fresh spring leaves, sometimes melancholy ponds frozen over by the breath of winter. His eyes are his father’s. They’re nothing more than another reminder of what he’s lost and what he’s never had. And so Isak can never look his own reflection in the eye whenever a puddle or a glass mirror whispers to him _look, look, this is who you are_. He can’t bear to look.    

“Isak.” His mother interrupts his train of thought, her mellow voice still barely above a hum. “What was Emilda talking to you about?” Isak feels a small ball of warmth form in his chest at the realisation that Marigold seems to know he wasn’t talking _with_ Emilda but was rather being talked _to_.

“Um,” he starts with a cough. “She was just asking me what I’ve been up to. Nothing special, really.” He shrugs and hopes (quite futilely, he knows) that his mother won’t pick up on the strained edge slicing through his voice like a knife.

Of course, she does.

Her eyes on him turn even softer, and the calming balm of her gaze is soon followed by a cool hand settling on his warm arm, the freshness of it seeping through his pores and making him hum absently in his turn. Isak looks down for a short moment, smiling a bit at the sight of Marigold’s small pale hand lying on his slightly muscular and sun-kissed arm. A snow-bird resting on a field of golden wheat, he thinks.

Then, Isak looks up again and wills himself to change the topic of conversation.

“You said you wanted to tell me about some family matters?” he asks. He’s still unsure whether there was any truth in the statement, or whether it was an entirely fabricated lie his mother came up with for the sole purpose of rescuing him.

“Yes!” Marigold’s face lights up in recognition. “Yes, I did. I wanted to tell you that your grandfather has sent you a letter from Minas Tirith. It just arrived this morning.”

She holds up something to him, and Isak realises for the first time that his mother has been holding an envelope in her hand the whole time. Isak takes the white object gratefully, a smile tugging at his lips as he turns it around and recognises his grandfather’s seal (a _mallorn_ leaf impressed on dark blue wax). The envelope feels warm and heavy in his hand, and Isak is already looking forward to reading and rereading it before going to sleep, like he always does whenever receiving one of the rare and long-awaited letters from his grandfather.

Those nights are always particularly magical. Bundled up in two or three woolen blankets with Lea sleeping soundly against his side, the darkness around them softened by the flickering flame of a candle and the far-off twinkling of stars shining through the window, Isak feels content seep into him as he lets his grandfather’s words lull him to sleep. On those nights, Isak’s dreams are filled with bright colours, with the exhilarating glimpse of far-away places and the echoes of warm laughter bringing him back to evenings spent reading stories by the fire; and he wakes up drenched in a longing so piercing it makes his bones ache.

When Isak once again snaps back to reality, he finds his mother looking at him with a tender and contemplative smile. Her hand on Isak’s arm has started stroking the skin and the soft blond hair gently, as though trying to provide some sort of comfort, and Isak doesn’t know what to say. What does he need to be comforted for?

“Come inside, baby,” she tells him, nodding her head towards their small hobbit hole a short distance behind her.

“Mamma, I’m not a baby anymore!” Isak retorts in a whiny voice. “I’m going to be of age in thirteen days, remember?” He tries to sound irritated (or at least petulant), but the chuckle threatening to escape his lips and the slight blush creeping up his cheeks betray him. Marigold just laughs heartily in response, reaching up to pluck the flower still sitting on Isak’s ear. Looking at the silky petals glittering under the morning light like the sun and the stars melted together, Isak is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to give the flower to his little sister and watch her turn into a giggling mess as he tucks it into her thick, long curls.

His mother’s hand curled around his wrist, Isak follows inside with a heart light as a feather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Foreyule_ : December in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _Forelithe_ : June in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _FA_ : Fourth Age, which starts after Sauron is vanquished and the One Ring is destroyed  
>  _Bywater_ : village in the Shire, located within the Westfarthing and close to Hobbiton  
>  _Men_ : the race of Men, humankind (not male gender)  
>  _Mallos_ : “gold-snow” in Sindarin Elvish; a flower shaped like a golden bell  
>  _Eirien_ : “daisy” in Sindarin Elvish  
>  _Mallorn_ : “golden tree” in Sindarin Elvish; a huge Elven tree
> 
>  **Note on language** : Hobbits of the Shire speak Westron (also called Common Speech as it is the universal language in Middle-earth in the Third and Fourth Ages) or Hobbitish, a sub-dialect of Westron. Both of those are rendered as English in this story because English is the universal language in the world we now live in. Isak is one of the very few hobbits to have interest in and knowledge of other languages. His studies on plants, herbs and flowers have led him to become familiar with the Elvish terms to designate them, similarly to how a medicine student learns words in Latin today. This sets Isak apart from the average hobbit and makes him come across as abnormally cultured and scholarly in the eyes of others.


	3. The Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading! ♡ I'm sorry for what happens in this chapter, I hope you'll forgive me. :(

_But what about the hero?_  
_Who saves them?_  
\- Anonymous

 **Present time**  
**Halimath, FA 64**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

Isak got something unexpected for his thirty-third birthday.

He got the usual fake smiles, half-hearted handshakes and stiff words of congratulations always bequeathed with begrudging enthusiasm on his nameday, and amplified on this occasion by an uncontrollable desire—common to the vast majority of hobbits—to blow coming-of-age parties and other such important social rituals out of proportion. He got over twenty presents of all kinds and sizes, a dozen of wet kisses on the cheek (“Oh how much you’ve _grown_ , my dear!”), four helpings of a gigantic blueberry and cream cake, and at least five insistent nudges to go and “have a bit of fun dancing with the lasses, by the Old Man Willow!”

He got a semblance of kindness and normalcy for one single day. It was a fleeting reprieve, like a solitary sunray breaking through a ceiling of clouds, warm and welcome but oh so fleeting.  

All of those things, Isak had expected and prepared himself for. Anxious to make as good an impression as possible in front of the 74 hobbits invited, he’d even worked on his sweet smiles and friendly demeanour with his sister in anticipation of the long-awaited (and long-dreaded) celebration.

 _(“Isi, don’t smile like that, you look like you just stole someone’s cutlery and are trying to get away with it.” “That’s it, yes, like th_ — _good gracious,_ no _, Isadorac! How many times do I need to tell you_ not _to try to wink at people? Honestly, just don’t. We don’t want them to run away from the party in terror, now would we?”)_

The one thing Isak hadn’t been expecting to happen on that day, however, was Lea suddenly collapsing in the middle of the music and the dancing, her small body dragging all the joy of the party into the ground as she fell.

* * *

**3 months earlier**  
**Lithe, FA 64**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

 _There is a ripple of gasps carrying over to Isak in a strong tide, quickly followed by a muffled scream resounding like a snap in the cool evening air._ Mamma _. It’s as though a hole has been ripped through the fabric of time. All the air is pushed out of Isak’s lungs. Everything stops._

_Isak starts running to his sister in a trance, barely registering the sea of nameless faces making way for him as he stumbled forward. His limbs feel heavy like lead. He can hear his own erratic breathing thumping in his ears, drowning out all sounds from the outside world, and he almost feels like everything around him has collapsed, has been sucked into oblivion._

_Empty. Gone._

_Only one word: Lea._

_When he finally reaches his sister, Isak finds their mother already prostrated on the grass beside her, uttering a quiet litany of “baby, baby, baby” like a prayer. Isak mechanically crouches down on the other side of Lea, almost recoiling when seeing the fragile motionless body, too still and too quiet to be his little sister. No movement, no sound_ — _just an unconscious face, sickly white like a_ niphredil _flower rotting away, and eyes rolling of their own volition under heavy eyelids. Isak cradles Lea’s neck with his big hand, looking for a steady pulse to reassure himself, and the feverish heat and wild fluttering he feels against his skin make his hand and his heart burn like a wildfire._

 _He’s suddenly reminded of the little bird he once found in their garden on a cold winter day, its wings broken and its heart thumping, thumping, thumping away frantically in his hand. Isak took it in, nursed it with care_ — _and the next morning, the bird was dead._

_“Lea. Lea.”_

_The choked, imploring whispers floating around him sound strange. Foreign. Isak doesn’t know where they come from._

_All he knows is that Leanora, his Leanora, needs him._

_“I’m going to take care of you, summer lily. I promise.”_

* * *

 And so, on his coming of age, Isak got a broken heart.

* * *

**Present time**  
**Halimath, FA 64**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

“Lea, I… I wanted to take care of you. I really did. But I f—” (the word feels too big and too sharp in his throat) “I f-failed you.”

Isak is sitting on the edge of the bed he shares with his sister, his left hand running through Lea’s dirty and matted curls. He tries to ignore the lump in his throat and the sting in his eyes as he admits defeat — tries to ignore the fact that the beautiful locks, once the resplendent colour of sand dunes Isak has read about in geography books, have now lost their lustre and lie limply on the pillow underneath Lea’s head, looking lifeless and dull.

The empty glass abandoned next to the bed taunts him. Isak glares at it in a surge of anger, resisting a sudden impulse to reach out and shatter the glass against the wall. _Another medicinal concoction I spent hours and hours brewing. Another desperate attempt. Another failure._

“Isi.” Lea’s voice is weak and raspy, as though forming that one syllable drains the reserves of energy left in her body. “You tried all you could. And _that_ ’s what counts.” She manages to give Isak the tiniest of smiles at that, her little finger twitching against his right hand in an aborted attempt at stroking it.

_No. It doesn’t count, and it’s definitely not enough. I failed you._

“You’re right.” Isak tries to keep his voice optimistic and light. Hearing his own words, he almost ( _almost_ ) manages to convince himself that darkness isn’t threatening to devour the sun and leave him in perpetual night. “I still haven’t finished working on that weed-based remedy, though,” he forces himself to continue. “Sam finally told me where to find _athelas_ — you know, that sweet-smelling herb with healing properties that I told you about? I’m going to look for it tomorrow. It’s going to help, I’m sure.”    

Isak doesn’t say that looking for _athelas_ (or Kingsfoil, as most hobbits call it) is most probably going to bring him past the borders of the Shire and take a long, exhausting day to collect; nor does he say that the herb and the concoction based off of it are the very last options that Isak and his knowledge and his books could come up with. Thankfully, Leanora stays silent. Isak doesn’t know whether she can hear the unspoken thoughts in his head and chooses not to call him out on his lie, or whether she’s simply too exhausted to enquire further.

“Try to get some more sleep, Lea,” Isak whispers. “Mamma will be back from work when you wake up, but for now you need to rest.”

“Nothing else to do anyway, right?” Lea jokes feebly, her lips curling slightly in a tense grin. “Thank you, Isi. Would you mind—” she starts before a short coughing fit wrecks her body, “—would you mind telling me a story to get me to sleep? You know I always love those.”

“Of course,” Isak answers gently, his fingers wrapping around his sister’s instinctively. “I can do that.” _I can’t save you, but I can do that_ , he doesn’t say.

When he starts, his voice resounds warmly in the tiny room that has been Isak and Lea’s haven all their lives. Its intonations sound distant and enveloping at once, almost like a dream.  

“Once upon a time, there lived the four most exceptional, most admirable hobbits to ever have walked Middle-earth. They led quiet and happy lives in the Shire, just like all the hobbits living before and after them, until — until something quite unexpected happened. You see, the four hobbits were given the chance to go on an adventure; and, unlike what any other hobbit would have done in their situation, they decided to leave behind the comfort of their home and to plunge head-first into the unknown. They left the Shire and, with it, everything that they knew.”

Lea is looking at him with a pale glimmer in her eyes, like the moon reflected on a dark lake on a misty night, and Isak focuses intently on the light within as he continues his story.

“Their journey took them through many things that they’d never even dared to imagine. Darkness, pain, doubt, despair… even death. They made friends who turned out to be monsters, and allies who turned out to be enemies. They discovered that the world isn’t only green meadows and blue skies, as they would have us believe in the Shire, but also metal and fire and ash and dust. And yet they kept on, unwavering, until all that was left of them was a shadow of what they used to be. They never gave up.”

“Why?” Leanora’s croaky whisper tugs Isak out of his reverie. Had her voice been more like it was before, less wrecked and weak, Isak might have thought there was a hint of fierce hope in it.

“They never gave up because they knew it was worth it. All of it. The suffering and the darkness didn’t matter because, in the end, the four hobbits needed to save their friends, to save all those who can’t defend themselves. It was their task, and they sacrificed themselves to fulfill it.”

“And did they?”

“Yes, they did.” At that, part of the shadow looming over Lea’s face seems to be lifted, and she stares at Isak with something akin to wonder. “They saved our Middle-earth from war and enslavement.” Isak doesn’t have the heart to tell his sister that the four hobbits, upon coming back to the Shire, discovered that they couldn’t save everything and everyone, and that the very heart of their home had gone foul and sour in their absence. “One of them left to the Undying Lands after many long years. One stayed and became Mayor of the Shire, while another became Master of Buckland. And the last had two children he loved deeply, and then he left on a last adventure to Minas Tirith in his old age.”

When Leanora’s breath catches a little in her throat, Isak knows she’s figured it out. She’s probably even had her suspicions all along, he realises.

“Gramps?”

“Yes.”  

There’s a long pause during which Isak and Lea simply look at each other, the young girl’s eyelids getting heavier by the minute and her long sandy eyelashes almost brushing the delicate skin under her eyes.

The question comes out soft, almost tender, and it’s coloured with something which Isak can’t quite place.

“Are you like Gramps, Isak?”

 _Are you finally going to make your difference your own instead of letting people reject you for it? Are you ready for an adventure unlike anything you’ve ever known? Are you brave, selfless enough to leave behind your home_ — _your life_ — _to protect those you love?_

_Are you a hero?_

Isak feels a stuttering breath escape his lips as he struggles to choke out a response. But then he takes in Lea’s even breathing and the same relaxed, almost child-like expression Isak sees on her face every night after he’s put her to bed, and the lie that has been waiting to get out stays stuck in his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Halimath_ : September in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _FA_ : Fourth Age, which starts after Sauron is vanquished and the One Ring is destroyed  
>  _Bywater_ : village in the Shire, located within the Westfarthing and close to Hobbiton  
>  _Lithe_ : 21 June in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _Athelas_ : “kingsfoil” in Sindarin Elvish; a healing herb  
>  _Niphredil_ : “snowdrop” in Sindarin Elvish; a pale winter flower
> 
>  **Note on Isak’s birthday** : Isak’s birthday on 21 June happens to coincide with Lithe, the day directly preceding Mid-year’s Day. The latter is a significant date which often marks a change of some sort: a wedding, a death, a departure, a decision, etc.


	4. The Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay with this chapter, I've been quite busy travelling in the past weeks. Hope you'll enjoy! ♡

_Please don't tell me the rules,_  
_I won't play by them_  
\- Beryl Starkovic

_My dearest boy,_

_Words fail me to express how grieved I am at the news of your sister’s illness. Though I left the Shire when Leanora was still but a babe, I remember all too well the exquisite sweetness of her smile, the flowers of joy and delight blooming in her eyes. The thought of such purity being touched by the cold fingers of sickness is terrible beyond words. How is your mother faring? Would you be a good lad and kiss and hold her for me, with all the tenderness you hold in your heart? These dark times must be very hard on you both, but I trust that you being there for each other will alleviate some of the pain as time runs its course. Do tell me in all honesty if there is anything (anything at all) I can do to help._

_P. S. Congratulations on your coming of age! As I’ve told you countless times, you’ve long possessed more maturity than most grown hobbits have even in old age — but all the same, proper well-wishes are in order. Here’s to you and a prosperous, happy, fulfilling life as an entirely responsible and independent fellow!_

_Peregrin Took,_  
_Your grandfather who loves you_

*

_Isak my lad,_

_What a bright, resourceful young lad you are! Barely grown, and already putting your love for all that lives to use to try and heal our dear Leanora. I’m deeply, sincerely sorry to learn that your attempts have been fruitless so far, but I urge you not to blame yourself for the fact that this blasted sickness is too virulent and gruesome for you to fight alone. Do not take the weight of your sister’s life or death on your shoulders, I beg you. Those shoulders are broad and strong, no doubt; yet they should never be burdened with anything beyond this world, anything which our mortal hands can’t possibly grasp._

_If you truly believe you’ve exhausted all the hope there is to find in the Shire, another path is open to you. I’ve been in communication with our dear friend Sam—as I know you also have been periodically—and we’ve concluded that some of the rare plants you’re missing to work on the development of more remedies are (or could be) growing here in Minas Tirith. According to Sam, the_ culumalda _,_ lebethron _and_ alfirin _abundant in Gondor could be of great use for several kinds of antidotes that are impossible to concoct with the resources available in and around Bywater. Our friend asked me tell you that you should pay him a visit and discuss those matters further with him if you so wish, and that he’s more than willing to help organise a trip to Minas Tirith should you deem it useful. Of course, I’m also always happy to provide any help or council you might seek — though I begin to understand that you’ve become too self-relying and clever to need your old gramp’s advice anymore._

 _All the love to you, your mother and your sister,_  
_P. Took_

*

_Isadorac, my favourite (and only) grandson—_

_The preparations for your arrival are going well and swiftly. I arranged the matters of your lodging and sustenance with King Aragorn personally, who generously proposed to let you stay in the heart of the White City and to provide you with everything you might need for as long as you wish to remain. You’ll be welcomed to Minas Tirith with honour and dignity, as the beloved grandson of one of the King’s closest friends._

_The necessary greens, as agreed, are being cultivated or collected while waiting for your coming. However, I must regrettably inform you that the process was slightly delayed following an unhappy incident involving Evandilyon, the King’s youngest son. Some of the crops were destroyed or dama..._

_...lease do not fret: Aragorn assured me that a very capable lady named Sûrwana is doing all that needs to be done and is working with the utmost care and speed so that you can get started as soon as you arrive._

_My boy, I wish you were not forced to undertake the journey to Minas Tirith in such unfortunate climate, but I understand that your journey can suffer no delay. I will beg the cold winds and cruel snow to spare you, and for the merciless winter to still its rage and grant you safe passage to me and a renewed hope for Leanora’s health._

_I love you,_  
_Peregrin_

* * *

 

 **Present time**  
**Foreyule, FA 64**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

Sitting at a table in the common room of the Valleybarren hole, his fingers fidgeting nervously in his lap as though trying to run away from their clothing of flesh, Isak has never felt more like a stranger. This is where he witnessed the birth of his sister and promised Lea he’d never leave her. This is where he found his mother after Terbold abandoned them, leaving but a ghost of pain and regret behind. And this is where Isak is now, planning his own escape.

Although he knows that leaving is the only way for him to save his little sister, he also knows what it makes him: a betrayer, a liar. _Just like my father._ He’ll soon be going off into the wide world to undertake the very first adventure in his life, and for what? For the knowledge that he’s deserting his family, turning his back on the only source of light glimmering dimly in the night surrounding him on all sides. How will he find his way, stumbling in the dark with no flame to warm and guide him on his path to the unknown?

His head buzzing with a swarm of thoughts verging more and more dangerously on despair, Isak lets his gaze wander to the closed round door on his right, and the tempest in his mind immediately subsides. On the grey pages of his mind, he paints colourful pictures of Leanora lying in bed on the other side of the honey-coloured wood, the quilt tucked under her arms rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing — and he’s reminded once more of the reason (the only reason) he’s doing this. _I have no choice._

Eventually, the trembling in his bones quiets down enough for him to steady his hands. Isak spares a last dejected glance at the letter lying on the corner of the table, squinting for a moment at the graceful characters which have been washed away around the middle by a large watery blotch, becoming utterly unreadable. Then, his hand barely quivering anymore, Isak resolutely takes up again the quill that he abandoned on the hard wooden surface. He dips the sharp point in a pot of black ink and lets it hover over the parchment page on which he rereads his own words attentively.

_Rules of Isadorac Valleybarren’s stay in Minas Tirith_   
_I. Dedicate at least ten hours a day to working on a remedy for Lea. This is and always remains the utmost priority._  
_II. Be wary of Evandilyon, the youngest son of King Aragorn II Elessar. He played an unclear but undoubtedly significant role in the destruction of some crops and, therefore, he should not be trusted._  
_II. Write to mamma and Lea regularly._  
_IV. Always remember to be grateful for the King’s generosity and kindness and to thank him as frequently as possible._  
_V. Make an effort to get into Sûrwana’s good graces, as she’s most probably going to be a crucial agent in the development of the remedies._

Isak nods to himself in satisfaction once he’s finished revising his list. He hesitates before writing down the last point, the ink on his quill suddenly seeming to shine under the dim evening light as though coated in dark blood.

_VI. Never, under any circumstances, be enchanted by a woman. Extreme vigilance must be exercised at all times around men and women alike, whose charming powers are perilous._

Something piercing and smarting shoots through Isak’s belly like an arrow as the glistening words wink ominously at him. _One more promise you’re going to break_ , a voice inside his head whispers. _Your father’s blood runs in your veins, and so does his weakness and his evil. You can’t run from him. You can’t run from yourself._

Before the darkness enveloping him has time to smother him more thoroughly in its embrace, a quiet creaking sound erupts on Isak’s right, making him brutally snap away from his own untamable, inescapable thoughts.

Lea is standing in the doorframe of their shared bedroom, looking impossibly small and fragile. The evening light coming in through the window behind her is casting a dazzling halo of purples, oranges and pinks around the frame of her body, creating the illusion that she’s floating above the ground.

“What are you doing up, baby girl?” Isak asks with a strained edge to his voice, immediately standing up and walking to Lea in quick strides. “You shouldn’t be up, remember?” Despite his attempt at keeping his tone gentle and soft, he’s painfully aware that worry drips thickly from his words.

“Isi,” Lea answers simply, leaning a bit against Isak’s chest and arm as he reaches her. Her skin is burning, always burning. “I was just wondering something. Had a hunch all of a sudden.”

“Yes?” Isak prompts. He picks up Lea effortlessly as he would a babe, trying to ignore the vague panic vibrating down his stomach as he feels all the angular bones underneath his sister’s thin, livid skin.

“What—” (the words sound pained from something else than physical exertion) “—what if you find a nice girl in Minas Tirith? Are you going to stay with her and not come back, then?”

Just as he lowers Lea back onto the damp sheets of their bed and lets his head hover over her briefly, Isak feels his heart sink to his throat, and for a moment he’s irrationally afraid he’s going to cough it out. _How does she… How does she_ know _? Did she read my thoughts?_ As images of generous curves and plump lips form on the edge of his consciousness, he feels ants of discomfort and disgust begin to crawl under his skin. Female softness, female sweetness, female wrongness, female—

It takes every bit of energy in Isak’s body to will his hands not to shake like leaves against Lea’s sides. His sister can’t feel Isak’s insides trembling, she can’t know how close her fear is to Isak’s own.

“Of course not, summer lily,” he finally murmurs when he feels reasonably confident his voice isn’t going to break. “I would never do like father and abandon mamma and you, surely you know that? I’m only leaving so I can come back to you and find you finally healed and healthy and happy. Do you understand?” He poses the question kindly but firmly, locking Lea’s green eyes in his to make sure his words make it through to her despite the tired haze making her eyelids droopy.

“Yes, I understand.” Lea’s voice sounds almost pleading. “I know you won’t leave me, Isi.” Lea’s voice sounds unconvinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Foreyule_ : December in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _FA_ : Fourth Age, which starts after Sauron is vanquished and the One Ring is destroyed  
>  _Bywater_ : village in the Shire, located within the Westfarthing and close to Hobbiton  
>  _Alfirin_ : "immortal" in Sindarin Elvish; a beautiful bell-like flower, most commonly white  
>  _Culumalda_ : "orange-tree" in Quenya Elvish; a tree with hanging yellow blossoms that grows in Gondor  
>  _Lebethron _: a hardwood tree that grows in Gondor__
> 
>  **Notes on names** : In accordance with the naming traditions of noble descendants of Númenor in the Third Age, Evandilyon's name is in Quenya Elvish and means "gospel." As for Sûrwana, it's an entirely fabricated name which is meant to be in the language of the Haradrim. This will be discussed further in upcoming chapters.


	5. The Sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, finally: Isak's arrival to Minas Tirith and his first meeting with Even! Any ideas on Even's character, what he's like and what his background is? :)
> 
> For those of you who are interested, here's a map showing the steps of Isak's journey as described in this chapter, starting in the Shire and ending at Minas Tirith. I did a lot of research to try and make the stops and distances as accurate as possible, but I'm sadly not an expert in Middle-earth geography, so please let me know if you notice any errors. :)
> 
> [](https://imgur.com/zwJNo9O)

_—The sunlight is so intense!_  
_All the light in the universe collects here._  
_—I don’t know that anything else exists._  
_There is only me, leaning on the sunlight,_  
_stopping for ten seconds._  
_Ten seconds can be as long_  
_as a quarter century!_

\- Wang Xiaoni

 **Present time**  
**Afteryule, FA 65**  
**Bywater, the Shire**

Saying goodbye felt like leaving his beating heart behind, warm and safe in the comfort of his family’s hobbit hole, and dragging the remains of his hollow body into the cold wilderness. _Am I ever going to feel warm again out here?_ Isak wonders, a glacial breeze biting his rosy cheeks as he gazes at the imposing pillars of stone raised on either sides of the road stretching before him. _The Sarn Ford_. Isak remembers the name from countless hours spent studying maps that would guide him on his way away from home. When he looks up at the stout columns pointing to the sky, their heads engulfed in damp fog, Isak is hit with the unnerving feeling that his passage is surveyed by two rock giants whose condemning stares are weighing on him. He gulps, resisting a sudden urge to look down meekly.

_This is it. This is the moment I leave the Shire and wander into the unknown, away from everything I’ve ever known._

Isak pats the mane of the small pony standing patiently next to him. Strangely, the coarse coal-black hair feels grounding between his fingers.

“What do you suppose awaits us on the other side of the ford, Black?” Isak asks his companion in a contemplative, anxious murmur. He tries (and fails) not to think back on what Lea told him before he left, her eyes seas of sadness in which Isak nearly drowned.

_“Don’t worry, Isi. Blackberry will take care of you. That little fella never once let me down in all the years I’ve had him, and I know he’ll be a faithful companion to you on the road to Minas Tirith and beyond. You’ll even be the first hobbit to ever mount him!”_

_Her voice was so light but her gaze was dark, so dark, the threads of exhaustion, sorrow and concern intertwined in their depth._

_“I promise I’ll take care of him as well,” Isak whispered in response, a tight knot forming in his throat as he took the pony’s reins in his hand. With the thick rope pressed under his palm, the young hobbit felt like he was desperately holding onto the only part of his sister that he could keep with him, and he was overwhelmed by a fierce determination never to let anything happen to Blackberry. The pony had been Lea’s dearest friend ever since she was old enough to know what friendship and companionship meant — and so taking the animal on the way to Minas Tirith meant taking some of the soothing warmth inside Lea’s heart on the cold, lonely journey._

Now, though, his fingers tangled in Black’s mane like he’s clinging to a lifeline, Isak can feel the cold mist seep through his thick layers of clothing and make him shudder. He’s exhausted after a long day on the road, and it takes all the energy left in him to conjure the spark of a last bittersweet smile, of a parting embrace wracked by sobs, and to let the memory melt away some of the ice clawing at his numb heart deep within. Although only a few hours have gone by since then, the goodbye is already dimmed by the gloom surrounding Isak on all sides. It feels as though an entire lifetime has passed.

After what could be seconds or minutes, Black gives a gentle whinny, pushing against Isak’s hand as though to wake him from his dazed stupor.

“Yes, sorry,” Isak breathes out with a feeble chuckle. The sound feels wrong in the thickness of the air enveloping them both. “We should get on, should we?”

He turns to look at the pony, surprised to realise the animal’s gaze is already on him. When Isak finds himself staring into enormous black eyes peering at him through infinitely long and thick eyelashes, he feels a blanket of relief settle over him, tucking him in, until the tension in his shoulders eases and a sigh escapes his lips. That pony may not be Lea, but he’s been raised by her and has spent years dozing by her side on the grass and galloping after her on the flower-sprinkled meadows of the Shire.

“Come on, boy, let’s get on the North-South road now!” Isak finally exclaims with as much cheeriness as he can muster. “Next stop: the Fords of Isen.”

Blackberry neighs reassuringly in response, losing no time in making his way towards the two columns flanking the road. This time, no aura of heavy judgement seems to emanate from them, and Isak realises with a jolt to his heart that the fog which previously engulfed the road has dissipated a bit, revealing a path stretching in a straight line far ahead.

* * *

Isak wakes up from a heavy, heady dream with a startle, his upper body jerking as he sits up in panic. He’s gotten so used to the desolation cradling him in its arms that he barely feels a dull ache tug at his chest at the melancholy sight greeting his tired eyes. _More grey, more cold, more emptiness._ As always, his first instinct is to look for Black’s comforting presence; and, when his gaze finds the pony standing a short distance from him, his big eyes shut in what seems like tranquil slumber, Isak allows himself a small smile. _Everything’s fine. Everything’s terribly wrong, but it’ll be okay as long as I have Black by my side._

Isak feels the broken fragments of his nightmare grasp for leverage inside his head, icy fingers creeping up on his consciousness, and he tries to shove them away. There’s flashes of a head with short dark hair pressed against Isak’s curls, of deer-like eyes glinting with tears and honeyed words whispered in his ear—

No, Isak can’t allow himself to think about Emilda now. He’s already surrounded by the darkness of winter: he can’t let the unwelcome memory of the girl’s enamoured gaze and desperate promises darken his world any more.

Instead, Isak forces himself to take out one of the many maps he brought on his journey, ignoring the slight trembling in his hands. He observes intently the writings and scribbles made by his grandfather’s hand. _We just passed Helm’s Deep, which means we should reach Edoras in a short while. Proud and beautiful Edoras, with its golden hall worthy of hosting godly feasts. Edoras, where uncle Merry left his heart on his quest to save Middle-earth. I wish I could visit it under different circumstances._

One of Peregrin’s many words of advice, which Isak kept safely tucked under the thick woollen jacket holding his body warm, was to make a short stop in Edoras to replenish his reserves of bread, salted meat, nuts and dried fruits, as well as to enjoy the temporary comforts of four walls enclosing and protecting him. Yet Isak knows he can’t tarry in the wide, glorious halls of Meduseld, no matter how tempting the prospect. He needs to outrun the ravenous poison of Lea’s sickness, needs to be swifter than the ghastly presence looming over his sister with a gaze full of hunger and malice.

Isak registers detachedly that the wind, tireless and merciless, continues to claw at him as it has for the past few days; but his cheeks and hairy feet are so numb from the cold that he no longer feels the cruel kiss of Rohan’s winter winds on him. _You’ve become one with the cold_ , a voice hisses inside his head. Instead of frightening Isak, the thought comforts him. _I’ll survive the chill of winter if there’s no light in me to be put out._

* * *

Hours have turned into days, days have turned into a week, and Isak has lost all notion of time. He jots down _Day 9_ in the pocket diary he brought to record the steps of his journey, struggling to hold the quill steady as he writes, but the number feels empty and meaningless as he repeats it in his head. All that makes its way through the blur enveloping his mind is the memory of his mother and sister, Black’s soothing presence against Isak’s back, and the cold _—_ the cold around him and inside him, seeping through every crevice as though it were water and Isak were a desolate and broken landscape to be invaded. He can feel the cold infiltrate the cracks of his veins and fill him up and up and up, until it becomes almost impossible to remember even the brightness of the Shire which used to always burn like a flame deep inside him. As for the fond memory of the dry and well-lit Meduseld, it’s only capable of carving a barely noticeable lukewarm well inside his belly.  

A weak inner voice tries to remind Isak that he and his four-legged companion have entered Anórien and most likely only have but a handful of days left to their journey, but that valiant voice has become too lethargic and tired to truly be encouraging anymore.

“Black,” Isak chokes out, his voice resounding feebly in the gloom, “how will things ever be alright again?”

Blackberry remains silent.

* * *

When Isak glimpses a spear of ivory rising far off in the distance, standing tall and proud and cutting through the morning mist like the prow of a formidable ship, Isak just stares at it with vacant eyes, unable to comprehend the sight before him. Slumped heavily on Black’s back, his tired fingers cramped compulsively around threads of rigid hair, Isak struggles to keep his heavy eyelids open to take in the almost otherworldly mirage of immaculate stone. He guesses that, even in the perpetual faded darkness hovering over the world at this time of the year, the rock fortress must shine strikingly bright when caressed by the arms of the morning sun — and the thought makes a wave of content wash quietly over him.

“My boy, it looks like we finally made it,” he whispers, his head bent so low that it’s almost leaning between the horse’s ears. His voice sounds weak, terribly weak, but there’s also faint colours of hope tinging it. “We made it. If only Lea and mamma could see us now...”

The thought makes hot tears burn at the corner of his eyes. When one of the drops escapes, brushing Isak’s cheek and finishing its course on Black’s head below, Isak feels for the first time in days that the infinite, bottomless cold might (perhaps) be melted away after all.

* * *

Minas Tirith is looming over the small hobbit and the small pony, looking so massive from up close that it seems to reach higher than the sky, ready to tumble over the two exhausted figures at its feet.

Isak’s mind is floating far away from his body, exhaustion settled so deep in his bones that he’s lost all control over his limbs. His world has been narrowed down to the white city burning a hole of longing and relief through him, the white city slowly dissolving the claws of ice that have held a deathly hold on his heart for much too long.

He thinks of his Leanora, shivering with fever in their bed back in Bywater. He thinks of his flowers blossoming into so many rainbows ready to be picked and smelled and cherished. He thinks of how…

 _An all-consuming flame of love and pride lit up his mother’s gaze as she took in the sight of her son for one last time and let her hands cup his face._ _“My son, my Isak,” she told him. “You’re going to accomplish such great things.” Her lips began quivering as one single tear rolled quickly down her cheek. She made no effort to wipe it away, simply staring into Isak’s eyes, and it seemed to the boy that the warmth in her gaze would be capable of making an eternal summer settle over all of Middle-earth for a hobbit’s lifetime._

“Mamma.” The quiet murmur, making it past Isak’s lips out of its own volition, sounds like a plea, like a prayer.

At the same moment, Isak notices with a startle that the cheerless grey which has been his bitter companion since he left the Shire has turned a crystalline, pure silver laced with ribbons of white; and, to his astonishment, he sees a single ray of sun (pale and hesitant, but unmistakably _there_ ) pierce through the clouds, bathing the white stone in a river of faded gold. Isak remembers his grandfather’s words in that instant.

_A City of Kings, a beacon of knowledge and beauty and hope…_

Just as the thought envelops him in its comforting arms, Isak feels his body go limp, as if his bones have suddenly dissolved under his skin. He’s distantly aware of the world spinning around and around and around, and then _—_ the world has gone black, and a dull smart is shooting through his back and legs. Isak can’t move at all.

Some time passes.

Through the low buzzing filling his ears to the brim, Isak hears a neigh (not Black’s voice) followed by a _thump_ (not Black’s feet), but those strange sounds fail to break through the tiredness settling over him and to make alarm bells ring in his mind. The hobbit has just begun wondering idly whether falling into oblivion here and now would likely result in his death, when something suddenly appears in his line of vision.

Isak blinks. Once, twice, thrice.

“What…”

The sombre winter sky is alight in stars, in an effulgent white fire burning as bright as all the light in Middle-earth and beyond. In the midst of this shower of gold and silver, Isak can discern the rough outline of a face which appears cradled in a halo, and an absurd thought occurs to him. _This creature is light, or perhaps the light is them?_ Then the shape seems to drink in the light, absorbing every drop of it, until the stranger’s features finally come into view and cause Isak’s heart _—_ now heavy and big and very much ablaze _—_ to clench inside his chest.

Pale, almost translucent-looking skin sprinkled with constellations and clusters of stars. Sharp teeth buried shallowly in gorgeous full lips. An elongated nose. A slight furrow pulling two golden-coloured eyebrows in. And eyes _—_ eyes more beautiful than anything Isak has ever seen.

Those eyes are blue blue blue, like the sky and the sea Isak has felt himself drown in countless of times, yet Isak fears nothing as he eagerly gets lost in them. Plunging head first into the kindness, the curiosity, the concern dancing there, Isak feels like he’s reaching for something escaping his understanding, something he can almost touch with the tip of his fingers. He’s heard of high winds carrying Manwë on their wings, of Ulmo’s heart flowing through the veins of the world, and he thinks, he thinks this is it. He found them. He found the gods.  

“Who are you?” Isak eventually croaks, so enthralled by the eyes boring into him that he barely realises he said something.

The stranger doesn’t respond, but the plush lips blossom into a full, genuine smile which puts the light of the sun to shame. Isak is instantly reminded of the many stories his grandfather told him about magic and its mysterious ways, magic opening a window through which the gods’ beauty shines upon forsaken Middle-earth, and he realises _—_

_This creature is magical._

And then he realises _—_

_It was just such an otherworldly creature that took my father away, wasn’t it?_

Observing the crinkles of delight forming at the corner of the stranger’s eyes, however, Isak feels his doubts and fears flow away between his fingers, and he finds that he doesn’t have the strength to try and hold onto them at present. Only when the soft, soft blue eyes flicker down to his lips does Isak realise that the corners of his own mouth have curled minutely upwards, as though inexorably pulled by the stranger’s presence. _I’m smiling_ , Isak thinks, and the thought makes him smile some more.

When a hand cups the side of his face in a feathery but scorching touch which burns Isak’s frozen skin, the lost hobbit feels all the tension leave his body, replaced by a warmth he thought he’d never experience again.

Suddenly, the exhaustion of the past days weighs too heavily for him to withstand.

In the brief moment before darkness encloses him, the last shreds of Isak’s consciousness capt two things: a deep and reassuring voice rumbling in his ear, and two strong arms enveloping his limp, spent body and carefully hauling him up into safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Afteryule_ : January in the Shire Reckoning / hobbit calendar  
>  _FA_ : Fourth Age, which starts after Sauron is vanquished and the One Ring is destroyed  
>  _Bywater_ : village in the Shire, located within the Westfarthing and close to Hobbiton  
>  _Sarn Ford_ : stone ford on the River Baranduin, on the far southern borders of the Shire  
>  _North-South Road_ : major road linking the kingdoms of Arnor (in the North) and Gondor (in the South)  
>  _Fords of Isen_ : crossing point of the North-South Road on the river Isen in the Gap of Rohan  
>  _Helm’s Deep_ : large valley gorge in the north-western White Mountains  
>  _Rohan_ : kingdom of Men on the borders of Gondor; territory of the Rohirrim  
>  _Edoras_ : capital of Rohan  
>  _Meduseld_ : great Golden Hall in Edoras  
>  _Anórien_ : region and fiefdom of Gondor


End file.
